The Last Mistake You'll Ever Make
by Shiro Ryuu
Summary: Heaven help me, I just know I’m going to be flamed for this. Nevertheless, I confess... it’s [Durza x Murtagh]! Aren’t you jealous? Starts five years preEragon, when Murtagh first came to Galby’s castle...


**AN:** It's my first Eragon fic! …and that, coupled with the fact that I haven't read Eldest yet means that it's probably riddled with annoying little mistakes. (For instance, it'd be just my luck that Urû'baen got a three-page description in book two, and I was working solely from the movie for Galby's personality, and...). Nevertheless, I hope you can bear with me – I tried my best! – and feel free to point out any and all errors. Also, don't expect any particularly speedy updates; I allowed myself to get swept up in my enthusiasm and am posting this without even having a single other chapter written; this is a Very Stupid Thing To Do, especially in my case -.-;; Other than that, though... I'd just like to note that Murtagh is thirteen in this chapter. Now, enjoy, all :)

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

Murtagh, wearing the dark clothes of mourning, sat in a dark room and contemplated a dark sky. The moon was nearly full tonight, but the sky was so clouded that it only succeeding in casting the faintest of sourceless gray glows. Logic held, he tried to tell himself, that his future was surely more uncertain than it had been in all his life – and yet his gut was insisting that it would probably match the prevailing color scheme quite nicely.

In less that a year, he thought with a detached sort of awe, he had lost everything he had ever had. Every_one_ he had ever had. He had only just begun to mourn for his mother, when the word had reached the castle that... _that_ _man_... He shivered, and hugged his arms a little tighter around his knees. Oh, he would still have this castle and his father's fine landholdings – assuming that Galbatorix had any love in his heart for the useless bastard son of a dead man...

He eventually became aware of a knocking at the door. It was more like a frantic pounding, actually. He tried to tune out the shouting that kept time with it, but he still got the general gist of it: "_Please_, lord... what are we going to _do_?"

"His Highness has surely already learned of Morzan's death," he said clearly. "We will wait for his instructions."

"But-!"

"That is _all_."

_That's right... because, back then, I __**always**__ waited for someone to tell me what to do next, didn't I...?_

* * *

Morzan's castle was located in the rich rolling hills which had built up inside the west side of the giant zigzag curve that the Ramr river made perhaps a two-day ride north of Urû'baen. Three days after the inhabitants of the castle learned of the last Foresworn's death, a messenger from the capital arrived at the gates seeking entry.

Murtagh mulled over this elapse of time as he sat in Morzan's old office waiting to greet his guest. A foolish person would assume that Galbatorix had sent the man the very day after he had received word of Morzan's murder, and would thus conclude that the delay had been designed to imply that he was unimportant but not unnecessary. However, a smart person would realize, as Murtagh long since had, that Galbatorix had surely heard the news at least a week ago, and could have had his instructions delivered any time in the past five days... and a truly wise person would recall that Galbatorix had a dragon, and could've let him know any time he'd bloody well pleased, if he had really cared at all...

Murtagh's mind whirled. Just what message had the king been trying to send, then? Did he think that Murtagh was foolish, smart, or wise? Or was he just reading too far into it...? All in all, he found that he was genuinely glad for the distraction when the king's courier was escorted in.

The messenger, a tall man with a strict military haircut and a pointy little black beard – Murtagh was nearly overcome by the urge to make disgusted faces at him, but managed to keep his outward appearance stoic – bowed at the waist and announced: "Greetings from the Emperor. My name is Barzel, and Lord Galbatorix has sent me personally to offer his condolences upon the death of your esteemed father, and to deliver the request that, as an orphaned minor, you adjourn to his palace at the capital as soon as is convenient. He assures you that you will find yourself completely provided for there, and he will assign the finest court scholars to oversee the continuation of your education."

Murtagh was nearly bowled over by the sheer number of weasel words. Of particular interest was the fact that Galbatorix acknowledged the fact that he was an orphan, and yet offered no sympathy for his mother's death... He got his face back under control behind his steepled fingers before replying: "Naturally I will obey His Majesty's... request. If you would allow me the rest of today to set things in order here, I will make all due haste for the capital tomorrow."

The man's mouth twitched ironically. _He knows that I know that he knows..._ "An admirable decision, my young lord," Barzel said, and Murtagh could only half control his grimace at the man's patronizing tone. "And now, if it would so please you – my horse is weary, as am I. I would be deeply indebted if you allowed me to spend the night here, and moreover I believe it would please His Majesty if I were to accompany you on your journey to the capital, for your safety."

Hardly any of his rage (and not least among the list of things making him angry was the thought of spending two more days with this man) came through to his voice as Murtagh said: "But of course. I will have some men see to your horse, and Jov will show you to a guest room."

Murtagh did not follow the hateful man out of the room, but waited until he was gone before leaning back in his overstuffed chair. Just what did Galbatorix want with him, then? Was it something as petty as stealing Morzan's land? Or did he, perhaps, think that the child of the 'esteemed' Morzan would be likewise talented...? Murtagh scoffed to himself as he got heavily to his feet.

* * *

As predicted, the trip to the capital took about two days. Barzel quickly learned not to attempt to pass the time with casual conversation, for which Murtagh was eternally grateful. During the night that they made camp on the plain, a beautiful full moon rose at sunset to a cloudless sky, but Murtagh retreated to his tent and pulled his blankets over his head.

It was still early on their second day when they entered the farmland that surrounded the city of Urû'baen. Murtagh realized that he had had no conception of just how vast the capital must be, but he kept that to himself. The rough track they'd been following soon grew into an honest-to-goodness road, and before midday they were passing through clusters of houses and shops at every crossroad.

As they approached the center of the city at last, Murtagh could not help but stare. At first he had thought that there must somehow be a single mountain in the middle of the plains. The city was surrounded by a high wall, but the fortifications were dwarfed by the palace beyond. The great gray bulk of it rose in thick towers and tiers to spite the sky... Murtagh shook his head in wry amusement. Well, he certainly knew where he stood now, didn't he...?

The guards outside the gates to the city allowed them to pass without comment, even bowing their heads respectfully to Barzel. Nevertheless, Murtagh felt as though some immense weight was pressing down on him; chancing a glance up, he noted that there were more guards atop the great wall, and their heads turned slowly to follow his passage.

Contrary to his expectations, Urû'baen was actually quite beautiful. Though the hulking castle loomed over everything, the city itself was full of color and splendor. The architecture was delicate and often adorned with bas-relief figures and designs; the roads were clean and wide; every single person that Murtagh laid eyes on seemed well dressed and well fed. The model of a perfect city, it... it set him on edge...

_Where are the poor people kept?_ he wondered. _If every other city in the Empire has them, then surely they must be hiding some somewhere... unless they are simply not 'allowed'..._

"When we get to the castle," Barzel announced, "you will be shown to your quarters to make yourself presentable, and then I will take you to meet briefly with the king. Afterwards you will return to your quarters, where dinner will be brought to you after you've had some time to settle in. By morning a servant will have been assigned to you to see to your needs and report any orders you may be given."

Murtagh merely 'hmm'ed in response, and Barzel frowned at him but said nothing. How interesting... what was the point of going to see the king at all, really, if they already had everything taken care of? And why was everything planned out in such minute detail? Just what did they think a person like him would do, if left to his own devices...?

Barzel had a quiet conversation with the guards at the palace gate; Murtagh saw them glancing at him, and made certain to remain facing forward and looking vaguely bored. Two men were summoned to take their horses, and they climbed the long flight of stairs leading to the entrance on foot with another man carrying Murtagh's luggage.

_Ah... the ancient mystery of where all our tax money goes – solved,_ Murtagh mused upon setting foot in the entrance hall. Fat pillars of marble supported the far-off vaulted ceiling, and in the murk beyond them he could make out rows of statues against the walls. If only the lighting were better, he decided, it would've been quite splendid indeed...

At the far end of the hall, Murtagh and Barzel exchanged their farewells. "I'll come for you in half an hour," Barzel said, and Murtagh nodded mutely. _Hmph – only half an hour of freedom from your presence, how unfortunate..._

As the man carrying his luggage led him to his new room, Murtagh found that the rest of the castle was just as pretentious as the entrance, if not more so. Rich carpets covered the marble floors, fine tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, and there did not seem to be a single hallway that did not have at least one suit of armor. An occasional bright window would reveal an unexpected glimpse of a courtyard made resplendent by flowers in full bloom, and torch brackets of gold-inlaid silver were yet another way that Galbatorix demonstrated his wealth, and yet for the most part the castle was strangely dark. Murtagh thought it must have something to do with the high ceilings; that was probably where all the warm air went, too...

The room he was brought to was, quite frankly, more luxurious by half than the room he had called his own back at Morzan's castle, but again, he did not share his thoughts with his companion. A few minutes of snooping revealed that he had been assigned a suite consisting of three rooms – an office slash living room that was as large as his room back home all by itself; a bedroom (complete with a bed so comfortable and large that he could've lived on it); and a bathroom (complete with an equally expansive silver tub) – and that wasn't even counting the walk-in closet off the bedroom that was already filled with a whole new wardrobe for him. Murtagh sighed at the sight of those new clothes, resigning himself to the fact that he was probably going to be here for some time.

The bath he took was an experience like none other; though Murtagh had heard of it before, they had not had running water at Morzan's castle. He toyed with the idea of staying in it until Barzel showed up, but in the end decided against it. With a towel wrapped around his waist – and even the towels seemed nicer here – he returned to the closet and picked out one of the finer outfits. He dressed himself, combed his hair with a silver-backed brush before a full length mirror, and experimented with the various colognes on the little table beside it, and still Barzel had not come for him. He should've stayed in the warm bath after all, he thought regretfully.

Murtagh tested the softness of the bed, before flinging himself dramatically onto it. He lay spread eagle on the silken quilt and observed how the mattress bounced a few more times beneath him before settling down; _another thing that is better than it was at home,_ he thought blissfully. He might already be thirteen summers, he reasoned, but, as long as no one saw, surely his dignity would allow him to jump on it just a _little_...?

_As long as no one..._

Suddenly, though he could not explain quite why, every muscle in his body tensed. It occurred to him just how much he had allowed his guard to come down, in the face of all this luxury. His hand crept toward the dagger at his hip, except of course there wasn't one there anymore – _but that's silly. There's no one else in the room. Impossible. There's no way that someone could've been looking into my mind – and why would they, anyway...?_

Nevertheless, that split-second feeling had gotten him quite paranoid, and though he resisted the urge to check under the bed and in the closet, he left the room rather hurriedly. His guard was up again, and he resolved that it would stay that way. He found himself in his sitting room, and was just contemplating unpacking his bags (and wondering whether he should write the servants at Morzan's castle and tell them to not even bother sending the rest of his clothes), when there was a knock at the door. He suspected that he was happier to see Barzel than he (or possibly anybody else) had ever been before.

* * *

By the time they reached the room where the king currently was, Murtagh felt that he could only hope that he would one day be able to navigate this labyrinth of decadence as confidently as Barzel did – and that, in the meantime, a servant would be lent to him to show him the way back to his room. His surroundings were so overwhelming that it was only when Barzel told him to wait outside before entering the room that it really hit him that he was about to see the ruler of the entire Empire.

This was just as well, he decided, because the thought seemed to be making him feel just a little bit ill...

"Come in!" Barzel's voice called. Murtagh shuddered, but set his face into a calm expression and did as he was told.

The room beyond the door, he discovered, held more books than he had hereto believed to exist. Shelves lined with them disappeared into ceiling and into the distance, and the room smelled of dust and mildew and wisdom. Surrounded by such an impressive collection of ancient knowledge, the balding man seated behind a thick oak table piled high with yet more books seemed rather... small...

"Murtagh, son of the late Morzan of the Thirteen Servants," Barzel announced solemnly, and Murtagh bowed deeply and prayed that his stomach would settle down sometime soon.

"It is a great honor to meet you, my lord," he mumbled to his knees. "I-"

"Is it now," Galbatorix grumbled, seemingly half to himself. Murtagh risked a glance at him, and then slowly straightened up when the man did not elaborate. The ruler of Alagaësia turned a page of the book before him and bent closer to it, as if he had just seen something interesting. "Are your accommodations to your liking?" he asked, and it took Murtagh a moment to realize that he was speaking to him.

"I want for nothing, sire," he replied quickly.

"Except a _father_, I trust," Galbatorix snapped. The king looked at him for the first time, and Murtagh was shocked by the animosity in his gaze – but then his eyes shifted to something behind Murtagh, and his expression instantly softened.

"Durza – you're back already? Did you find it?"

Murtagh half-turned to see the newcomer – a small gasp escaped him, but nothing more, of which he was rather proud. It was, he told himself firmly, a man, and yet everything about this stranger screamed of a snake. Yes; a bright red desert snake, certainly venomous, lurking in the shadows of a dune and waiting for rats... he couldn't quite seem to move even as the man approached him, just as if he really were nothing more significant that a worthless little rodent...

"_Child_," the man whispered with a sneer, brushing past him – and in the instant that their arms touched, Murtagh knew beyond a shadow of a doubt why he had felt spied upon in his room earlier. He felt his ears burn with anger and embarrassment, and was thankful for the dim lighting.

"I did, my lord," the man continued, louder now, as he walked to Galbatorix's side of the desk. He set a rough wood box on top of one of the stacks of book, and the king eagerly peeked under the lid.

"Wonderful; I was concerned that..." His voice trailed off, however, and he shot Murtagh a calculating glance. _Something I'm not supposed to hear,_ Murtagh thought, and made a conscious effort not to roll his eyes. "Murtagh Morzan's son, I am pleased to have met you," the king said formally, and Murtagh wondered when _that_ had happened. "I will send for you if I need you; in the meantime, please feel free to take full advantage of the hospitality of this castle, and attend to your studies." This was plainly a dismissal and, though the king turned back to his little box without even waiting to see if he was leaving, Murtagh was only too happy to oblige.

_So... that was Galbatorix_. The tyrant of Alagaësia, the leader of the Forsworn – well, not anymore... A strange man, Murtagh thought. He seemed cold, and yet Murtagh supposed he could probably have a grudging sort of respect for him. _He doesn't seem to be the type who would put up with any double-speak,_ he thought dryly.

"Well," he groused, once he and Barzel were out of earshot, "whatever that was, it sure cheered him up." Barzel narrowed his eyes at him.

"It would be wise if you didn't take such a tone when speaking of our king," he warned in clipped tones. "_Ever_." Murtagh just shrugged, and Barzel turned to go.

"Ah – wait!" Barzel glanced back at him, eyebrows furrowed in mild irritation, and Murtagh hesitated. The question on the tip of his tongue was 'Who was that red-haired man?', but... He pointed uncertainly down a random hallway. "Um... my room was...?"

Barzel sighed, and pointed in the opposite direction. "_That_ way," he corrected, and continued on his way. Murtagh glowered after him, but decided that he would not subject himself to the indignity of running after him. _Besides_, he thought with a touch of black humor, _even if I get lost, I doubt I'll ever __**really**__ be alone in this castle, will I?_

**((End Chapter One))**


End file.
